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Palabras Errantes Latin American Literature in Translation

Palabras Errantes
There is nothing as rejuvenating as forgetting

By Felipe Martínez Pinzón. Translated by Cherilyn Elston.

‘There is nothing as rejuvenating as forgetting’

Walter Benjamin

 

 

It is night with its alcohol cloths

for wounds, it is night

with its crochet needles

hooting, insectile, the music of return.

Shelled from the world

we arrive home once again.

Exhausted, we scratch our heads,

we go through the door,

we open the fridge

and in its light contemplate the universe,

its constancy: everything comes back to the apple.

We take it, we wash it

in the same water as Pontius Pilate

that says to us, indulgently,

wash your hands,

and we take a bite, at last!, its firm skin,

its juice confirms

that we have put a spell on sin

that we have returned to a time

before forgiveness.

 

Tonight we deserve a pajama

that will soften our flesh, fluff it up

on the banks of a river softened by cloths and breathes.

 

When we close our eyes, we feel

an annoyance, a faint noise wane away

and we suspect, with a drooling smile,

that it won’t be there tomorrow.

 

Fotografía por Robert Max Steenkist FotoMUST

3.

 

‘Nada rejuvenece tanto como el olvido’

Walter Benjamin

 

Escrito por Felipe Martínez Pinzón.

 

 

Es la noche con sus trapitos de alcohol

para las heridas, es la noche

con sus patas de croché

ululando, insecta, la música del regreso.

Desgranados del mundo

llegamos otra vez a casa.

Exhaustos, nos rascamos la cabeza,

cruzamos la puerta,

abrimos la nevera

y en su luz contemplamos el universo,

su constancia: todo vuelve a la manzana.

La tomamos, la mojamos

en la misma agua de Pilatos

que nos dice, indulgente,

lávate las manos,

y mordemos, ¡por fin!, su carne prieta,

su jugo nos confirma

que hemos conjurado el pecado,

que hemos vuelto a un tiempo

anterior al perdón.

 

Esta noche nos merecemos una

pijama que ablande la carne, que la esponje

al borde de un río mullido de telas y respiraciones.

 

Cuando cerramos los ojos, sentimos

un molesto, tenue ruido apagarse

y sospechamos, con una sonrisa babeante,

que no estará ahí la mañana siguiente.

 

(De La vida a quemarropa, 2009)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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